


Red Pagodas Remind Me of You

by monopolizeme



Series: He Was Pointing At the Moon but I Was Looking At His Hand [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banter, M/M, Quiet confusion, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monopolizeme/pseuds/monopolizeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is very quickly learning that when Derek said “road trip” he very literally meant the definition of <i>road trip</i>. As in, trip by road. In a car. On the road in the direct manner where endless stretches of highways are involved and <i>too many</i> trees blurring past Stiles’ growing apathetic gaze. Stiles never thought that he could actually become so sick of trees and it's only Day One so Stiles is quite sure that he is never stepping into the Beacon Hills Preserve ever again after this trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Pagodas Remind Me of You

 

 

 

Stiles is very quickly learning that when Derek said “road trip” he very literally meant the definition of _road trip_. As in, trip by road. In a car. On the road in the direct manner where endless stretches of highways are involved and _too many_ trees blurring past Stiles’ growing apathetic gaze. Stiles never thought that he could actually become so sick of trees and it's only Day One so Stiles is quite sure that he is never stepping into the Beacon Hills Preserve ever again after this trip.

“So… where are we going?” Stiles says for the umpteenth time.

Derek breathes out with deliberate slowness through his nostrils because although this may not _literally_ be the umpteenth time that Stiles has asked that question, it is ranging on about the forty-seventh time for that day. 

“Stiles,” Derek half growls and Stiles is pretty sure that that sentence is either going to end in _you're infuriating_ or the more simple albeit less effective _shut up_.

“Dude, we've been driving for _hours!_ ” Stiles insists, briefly wondering how many times you can get away with calling your boyfriend _dude_ before you get smacked upside the head. “And what the hell, I'm just asking where we are _going_. I didn't even tell you to pull over. I think I am more than justified in wondering where we are headed. At least with a destination in mind I'll have a reason for enduring mindless hours just sitting here in a car as I count the number of tree species involved in this little escapade.”

Derek makes another one of those sounds that teeters on suppressed frustration and replies, “Right now we are headed to the nearest place to settle down for the night.”

“Oh, clever maneuver of evasiveness there. Too bad that shit doesn't work on me.”

“We’ll be there soon.”

“To our final destination or to the nearest hotel?”

Derek presses his lips together and glares over at Stiles.

Stiles innocently lifts his brows in return. 

“We've only been driving for six hours, Stiles.”

“No, _you've_ been driving for only six hours,” Stiles corrects. “I've been _sitting_ here for six hours. Which is a lot more passive activity than driving which is _why_ I am so fucking bored out of my mind that I could start up another game of 20 Questions.”

“I'm not playing that game with you again.” Derek says crossly, “You keep choosing body-parts and werewolf clichés and no, that's not as funny as you claim it to be, Stiles. And you are not driving my car either.”

“Aw, c'mon!” Stiles does _not_ wail. “First of all, have you seen your body? It's a little difficult for me not to be so infatuated by it. Second of all, I am a licensed driver, you know. I own a jeep. I've driven you countless times and never once has your life been in peril due to my driving. I take _very_ good care of my jeep and my passengers.”

“Like when you drove through the side of a warehouse and crashed into Jackson?”

Anyone who has ever said that Derek Hale lacks a sense of humor can go reevaluate their life choices because although Derek may not be a laugh out loud kind of guy, he does possess a rather infuriating sense of sarcasm that is most always delivered with an unreadable expression of sorts. It's kind of distracting because sometimes Stiles cannot tell if Derek is being serious or actually engaging in the exchange of dry quips.

“I'll have you know that I _saved_ your ass by driving into the side of that warehouse. I saved everyone’s lives and it was pretty badass at that.”

“And it cost you how much in repairs?”

Stiles rolls his eyes and pretty much his entire head at that.

“My _point_ , is that I am perfectly capable of driving your car.”

“And _my_ point,” Derek replies in calm rebuttal, “is that you are not getting your hands anywhere near this steering wheel. I don't need you accelerating your way into the first thing that happens to jump into the middle of the road due to your so called skills of badassery.”

“Creating our own textbook of vocabulary are we? No no, I like that.” Stiles says conversationally when Derek looks like he is about to acquaint Stiles to a life without teeth. “Look, I won't slam into anything. I'll very gently ease to the side of the road. Or maybe pull one of those awesome 360 moves that will leave you breathless and in awe.”

Derek arches his brows at that. “You've had a good degree of practice at that?”

“No time like the present to find out.”

“Forget it.”

“ _Oh my god!_ ” Stiles’ voice raises about three degrees in volume with each pointed syllable. He presses his mouth together, bottom lip pushed out and shakes his head vehemently. Finally he twists in his chair in great exaggeration of moving limbs and zero composure and huffs out what will probably be the start of a very long and rambling diatribe.

 “You know what? You suck. You absolutely suck in the highest level of suckage that is possible. If there was a Hierarchy of Sucking you would be at the top of that list. They would actually crown you King of Suckage. That's what you are. You are that tiny triangular point at the top of the pyramid of all that sucks. In fact, people would actual travel from all corners of the globe to make due to your flawless ways of Sucking. So congratulations, Hale, you are the absolute epitome of suckage that cannot be topped.”

Derek slams on the breaks with such abrupt force that Stiles' face smashes into the dashboard, a howl of pain ripping from his mouth. 

_“What the –"_

The tires of the Camero scream in indignation at being manhandled so fiercely as Derek forces the wheel and swerves them off to the side of the road, locking the car into park and jerking out the keys. 

Stiles thinks, with a small growing sense of horror, that he might possibly have annoyed Derek to such a degree that Derek is just going to leave him there and walk the rest of the way to the nearest hotel. And he'll take the keys with him, of course, so that Stiles has no choice but to sit in an abandoned car in an abandoned spot on the highway just waiting to be hijacked by a serial killer with an axe who will chop his body into tiny mirco-sized pieces and scatter his remains throughout the forest. Stiles is going to be _that guy_ \- the guy who starts off the beginning of the cheap horror flick, the guy whose only role is to act as the catalyst for the main actors to then enter the scene and is never heard from again because his body has been chopped up into so many pieces that not even the _dogs_ can find him. He's the guy whose life ends before it ever has the chance to get good.

But then Derek is unbuckling his own seatbelt and reaching over to do the same with Stiles’. He is about to plead for his life when Derek yanks at the seat controller by the side and Stiles’ chair goes flying backwards and Stiles makes another unmanly sound of surprise because this _really_ is not very I-hope-you-die-by-the-hands-of-an-axe-murderer-esque.

“Um?” Stiles’ throat squeaks out.

“ _Shut up,_ ” Derek says gruffly and then his hands are undoing the fly of Stiles’ jeans, fingers grasping at the tiny metal clasp and all but tearing the zipper open.

Stiles makes a noise that may very well be the incoherent exclaim of _ohmygod_ and his hands are twitching by his sides because he doesn’t know what to do with them and then all brain activity short-circuits as Derek’s mouth closes _down_ on him.

“Jesus _christ_ ,” Stiles chokes, head falling back and smacking against the soft leather, which he is suddenly very grateful for. He is dizzily aware of the throbbing going on in his bruised nose but that sensation is being drowned out by the blood pulsing through his ears as Derek works with excruciating slowness up and down the length of his cock. “Are you crazy?” He gasps, moaning and arching helplessly into the tight wet heat of Derek’s mouth. His hips jerk when Derek tongues at the underside of his dick. “Oh my god you are, you are absolutely insane. We are on the side of the road and anyone could come by and you are-“ 

His protests dissolve in another shameless moan and fuck it he doesn’t care, they could be arrested at this point just _don’t stop, Derek please_ and his hands are in Derek’s hair, trembling a little because he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do that. But Derek just hums in the back of his throat and Stiles can feel that sensation vibrate through his cock and tighten around the base of his spine and he almost comes at just that.

But then Derek eases his mouth off of him, not completely, just enough to suck gently at the head and Stiles whimpers.

“Please don’t stop.”

Derek’s eyes flicker up to Stiles’ face, which is splotchy and red and may look a little like he is suffocating. And the look in Derek’s eyes is positively _evil_ , especially when he keeps his gaze locked with Stiles as he slowly sinks down Stiles’ cock again, allowing his lips to stretch open as he takes him fully down his throat and _oh god_ that should not be so hot, it really shouldn’t but Stiles just wants to grip the back of Derek’s head and keep his firmly situated on his cock.

“Derek,” Stiles chokes, hands twitching at the ends of Derek’s hair, watching his cheeks hollow and his lips gleam wetly and fuck that is Stiles’ _precome_ gathering at the corners of his mouth.

Derek hums in the back of his throat again, mouth tightening when Stiles fucks helplessly into his throat at that, one hard thrust of his hips before Derek grabs both of Stiles’ hands _painfully_ and pins them to the chair.

“Oh god, I’m sorry- fuck, _Derek_ ,” Stiles moans, because suddenly having his hands forced to his sides while being sucked off is a lot hotter than Stiles ever could have imagined. There’s something wrong with him. “God, you have to go faster, you have to-“

And he doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore, just babbling up at the ceiling of the car and Derek gives him a little of his teeth and that should _hurt_ , he seriously should not enjoy that one bit but Derek digs his nails into his wrists at the same time (a little too sharp to be completely human) and the dual sensations of pain and white-hot pleasure from Derek’s tongue makes Stiles give a startled shout.

He’s going to come, fuck this hasn’t even started and he’s already going to lose it in Derek’s mouth, if only Derek would tighten his lips a little more and _god_ the leisurely pace that Derek is working with is going to _ruin_ Stiles. He’s so close, that clenching heat tightening at the base of his spine and building low in his belly and he’s practically vibrating with it, mouth open as his tongue runs along the bottom rim of his lip.

“Fuck, Derek, _harder_ -“ he  whines, twisting against the leather in desperation, panting and choking back bitten cries that sound so shamelessly wanton that it’s fucking _embarrassing_. And he _would_ be embarrassed about that, only he can’t stop to focus because the sounds Derek is making around his dick is positively obscene, especially when he pulls off all wet slide and-

“Oh my god, what are you doing? Get back here- _jesus!_ ”

Derek’s nails break into the tender skin of his wrists as he shoves himself down of Stiles’ cock again, and Stiles is going to walk away from this with bruises, he just knows it but he doesn’t even _care_.

He hears Derek growl when he tries to tug his hands free and Stiles can _feel_ that shuddering through his cock as Derek sucks him deeper into his throat, only to pull off each time Stiles’ hips stutter on the verge of orgasm. 

_“Derek.”_

His voice has become a needy mess of Derek’s name, breaking from his mouth like a mantra, _DerekDerekohfuckgodplease **Derek**_ until it’s the only word left in his brain and Derek finally lets him come, thick frantic spurts down his throat, working Stiles’ through the come down with perfect little sucks until Stiles is sobbing his name and shaking against the seat cushion.

“Oh - shit,” Stiles rasps, chest heaving with each word, hands hanging limp by his sides because he is pretty sure that he has been left boneless by Derek’s unbelievable mouth.  And brain dead. He is absolutely void of coherent thought.

Derek’s mouth pulls at the corner in that self-satisfied way of his and he leans up, pushes his mouth against Stiles’. He gently squeezes at the hinge of Stiles’ jaw with his fingers, coaxing his mouth open and his tongue slips into Stiles’ mouth, sticky and bitter as he pushes the remains of Stiles’ come across his tongue.

-

They stop at a motel just on the outskirts of the next coming town and Stiles raises a brow inquiringly at Derek.

“Not one for fine estate, are you.” Stiles comments dryly, tugging his dufflebag out from the back seat. He twists his head around like some weird demented owl as he works out the kinks that have built up in the muscle.

“I didn’t think you needed a five-star hotel,” Derek remarks. And Stiles knows that that is not so much a jab at his worth as it is his priorities.

He shrugs, “Nah, as long as there are no lice or smells like someone died in there or had copious amount of sex – I’m good.”

Derek arches a brow at Stiles’ mention of _sex_ and Stiles grins wickedly in return.

Derek just lets out a sigh, as if he doesn’t understand why he is spending so much time with a teenager and shuts the trunk of his car. 

“It’s clean,” he says, walking to the main office and Stiles resists making a comment about Derek’s sense of smell for that one.

Their room is on the first floor, which Stiles thinks may have something to do with Derek liking to have a quick escape if need be, and it is relatively clean. Stiles pauses by the doorway, sniffs suspiciously and Derek pushes his large hand in between Stiles’ bony shoulder blades and shoves him inside (not too roughly though, Stiles would have been sprawled across the floor rather than the trip-flailing action he does instead).

“It’s fine, Stiles,” Derek tells him, as if he is talking to a four-year-old and Stiles wonders if his age-level of maturity is starting to decline in Derek’s mind (god, he hopes not).

There are two beds, which Stiles notes with a weird twinge of disappointment, and he spends what feels like three minutes staring at the two beds wondering which one he should take. Derek doesn’t seem as indecisive and moves past Stiles, setting his bag on the bed nearest to the door.

“Shower,” he says and Stiles thinks for a moment that Derek is implying that Stiles actually smells. Which is absurd, even if Derek _had_ blown him in the car, Stiles doesn’t _smell_ (or maybe he does, maybe he smells like sex and ok, that would probably be really bothersome).

But Derek has already shucked off his coat and placed it by the foot of his bed and is peeling his shirt up over his arms as he makes his way into the bathroom.

The door clicks quietly behind him, and Stiles is left staring into an empty room.

-

Stiles orders Chinese food while Derek is showering. He can hear the faint stream of water hitting the bathroom floor, that odd echo water makes in a shower stall and Stiles tries not to feel irritated over the fact that Derek did not invite him to join him. Instead, he decides that he is going to order an obnoxious amount of food and Derek can fucking complain all he wants when he gets out.

Stiles has made it his prerogative to order Chinese food from every county they visit in order to find out which place makes the best. This is probably not very important in the scheme of things but Derek is stupid elusive about everything, not even telling Stiles why they are on this trip, and Stiles needs some form of distraction.

He circles a generous amount of items from the paper menu, flips to the cover page and thumbs the number into his phone.

-

 “So how is it?” Stiles asks, motioning with the box in his hand, his cheeks bulging with an impressive amount of noodles.

He is sitting cross-legged on his bed and Derek is leaning against the headboard of his own mattress and there are Chinese food boxes scattered all over Stiles’ sheets. Derek is a bit neater in his eating and has chosen to place his desired food choices on the night stand beside him.

“It’s Chinese food,” Derek says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yes, but how _is it_? I think Beacon Hills trumps Brentwood. But what about New York? Did it have better Chinese food, would you say?”

Derek looks like he is resisting the urge to roll his eyes, probably trying to come across as the Mature One of the two but he says, “Stiles, it’s take-out food. It tastes the same everywhere.”

But Stiles is adamant about this one. He thinks this probably has to do with him being cooped up in a car for the past eight hours and although being blown at the side of the road in perhaps one of the best experiences of head that he has ever received was a definite plus, the fact still remains that Derek has not kissed him in over an hour and that makes Stiles incredibly testy.

“But New York has better everything,” he insists, totally does not _whine_ , “That’s what they say, they always say that.”

Derek gives him an utterly bewildered look, the chopsticks halted in mid air to his mouth.

“Who are _They?_ ”

“They,” Stiles repeats, “Them – They – the people who know things and then share it with the rest of the common folk who have experienced nothing and sit about wondering, waiting for Them and They to enlighten their meager lives with knowledge and fact.”

Derek does roll his eyes at this, which is testament to how ridiculous Stiles must sound and the level of exhaustion that Derek is beginning to reach.

“So I am one of those said They now?”

Stiles thinks about this. That would make him one of the Common Folk, but considering that Derek is a supernatural creature of the night and Stiles can barely see clearly on a foggy day, he figures that he had dropped down to the level of Common Folk for a while now.

“Yes.” He replies, as if the matter has been settled. He crams an entire spring roll into his mouth. “Now spill it,” he says, or more so spits out around a mouthful of fried wanton skin and possibly shrimp bits.

Derek sighs, goes back to eating.

“It tastes the same. It tastes the same everywhere, unless you go to an authentic shop – Chinese take-out tastes the same everywhere. Now shut up because you’ve managed to get shredded vegetables on my pants.”

Stiles grins. 

Derek finishes before Stiles, as he usually does. And despite being a Creature of the Night, Derek seems to prefer turning in a lot earlier than Stiles. 

Stiles thinks that maybe this has to do with the fact that Derek does all of the driving, or maybe spending so much time with Stiles wears him out, or maybe he just wants an excuse to not have to listen to Stiles’ incessant and uncoordinated rambling. 

He slips out of his shirt and pants and folds them on the chair, because for a guy who preferred living in a half-burnt house for the better part of a year, Derek is stupid meticulous and clean and tidy about his things.

Stiles watches as Derek pulls back the covers and settles beneath them, watches the curve of his back as he bends down and the way his muscles stretch and tighten, the pull of tendons in his arms. It feels incredibly lonely for some reason, to watch Derek turn his back to Stiles and face away as he settles in for the night. And Stiles knows that it is stupid but he hates that he is sitting in his own bed, that Derek chose for them to sleep in two separate beds because even if he didn’t want to have sex, it seems almost wrong that he didn’t bother to ask Stiles if he wanted to sleep with him. 

They’re a thing now, right?

Stiles sighs, gathers the boxes littering his bed and dumps them in the too-tiny waste basket beside him. Derek doesn’t ask him to turn off the TV, because he never does, but Stiles figures that even without werewolf hearing it is quite annoying to have a TV on, even on soft volume, with flickering lights splaying across the room, when one is tired and trying to sleep.

Stiles isn’t interested in what is on the channels anyway. His limbs feel twitchy and restless, but not because of too much energy. He is not going to admit that there is a strange empty feeling that has been growing along his spine for the past several hours, has now stretched like a cancer throughout his arms, under his skin, between his veins and it is worry and doubt.

He wonders if maybe Derek has changed his mind about the whole “belonging” thing, that maybe Derek has realized that he doesn’t want to be tied down to a seventeen-year-old boy that he can’t even fuck without risk of being jailed and maybe Derek wants to let Stiles down easy, give him this one last thing before he breaks it all off.

His clothes are left in a heap by the bed because Stiles is not like Derek and couldn’t give a fuck about the state of his clothes. He climbs into bed and tugs at the blankets as if they have personally offended him and is just about to shut his eyes when he hears, quietly,

“What are you doing?”

Stiles glares at the general vicinity of Derek’s head, because his eyes have still not adjusted to the stark blackness that has encompassed the room.

“Fuck off, they’re my clothes.”

There is a moment of silence and then Derek says, voice low, “No, what are you _doing?_ ”

Stiles isn’t quite sure what Derek means by that. He is used to not knowing but combined with a frustration of not being touched and the fact that he is probably going to be dumped, Stiles is not of patience to decipher Derek’s cryptic speak.

“Sleeping,” he bites out.

He hears the soft shift of sheets, Derek moving beneath them and Stiles can faintly make out that Derek is facing him on his side, sitting up slightly with his hand braced against the mattress.

“I mean,” he says quietly, “Why are you sleeping _there?_ ”

Stiles is at a loss of words for a moment. He is distantly aware of how quiet it is, of being in the middle of nowhere. It’s a surprisingly silent motel, despite the cars that Stiles had seen in the parking lot when they arrived. He thinks that maybe this is just a quiet area and maybe the people here are dull and low key – or maybe they are the sorts who do not make a lot of noise, have some kind of unspoken understanding of respecting their neighbors and Stiles isn’t quite sure why he is thinking about the social dynamics of a motel when Derek is still waiting for him to speak.

“I-“ his mouth opens and Stiles realizes that he doesn’t have anything intelligent to say. So he tries for, “There are two beds?”

Derek sighs and shifts so that he is seated on the mattress, bare feet coming to rest on the floor.

“Stiles-“ he runs a hand over his face, as if this is difficult, that forming words and explaining intent has become difficult for him. And Stiles cannot understand why. “You like to put your food all over your bed when you eat. And frankly, that’s disgusting and the smell is too overwhelming for me to sleep with, for my own bed. You- you’re fine to do it on your own.” He makes a half gesture with his hand towards Stiles, who is still kind of gaping.

“So I asked for two – so you could do whatever you wanted.” Derek says, he sounds a little frustrated and Stiles can begin to make out the line that appears whenever Derek draws his eyebrows tightly together like that. “But I didn’t mean –“ he lets out an agitated huff. “Will you just get over here?” 

Stiles blinks at him, slowly, mouth still open like a guppy fish and he makes a movement with his mouth that probably _looks_ like a guppy fish.

“With you?” he asks dumbly.

Derek’s lips forms a tight line and he breathes out hard through his nose and then his hand is wrapped around Stiles’ upper arm, firmly.

“Yes, with me. Didn’t you say that – we’re doing that – that _belonging_ thing. Just get into bed.”

It takes just a half beat of Stiles’ heart to register that statement, and then he is smiling, smiling like Derek just offered him the world or some stupid kind of romantic thing like that and scrambles out of bed, fumbling like an idiot which leads him to colliding into Derek’s warm naked chest.

He feels Derek give a small laugh against his ear, and he knows there is a smile in there.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Derek says softly and the fondness in his voice makes Stiles’ stomach clench. His fingers ghost up the line of Stiles’ spine, above the thin fabric of his t-shirt. 

Stiles gives a nervous little laugh, slowly straightening so he can look into Derek’s face. Derek’s fingers have not left their claiming spot on his arm, but his grip is gentler now.

“How was I supposed to know? You requested a room with two beds. That seemed kind of obvious, didn’t it?”

Derek shakes his head, brushes his mouth against Stiles’ temple.

“You’re supposed to know these things. I thought you were the all-knowing boy wonder?”

“Oh, guy’s got some jokes in him late at night,” Stiles remarks dryly and Derek chuckles, once more.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta, [Becky](http://winterkiss.tumblr.com).  
> And thank you all for reading!
> 
>  
> 
>  **EDIT** : Oh my gosh, [Becky](http://winterkiss.tumblr.com) has also drawn a fanart to this fic!!!!! It is freaking amazing - a full two panel digital painting and I am at such a loss of words at her talent and how incredible this fanart is - and it was inspired by the opening scene! :D [Please do look at how beautiful this is.](http://winterkiss.tumblr.com/post/47739857098/)  
> 


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